


What It Means

by allthebros



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (newly), Canon, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sharing Clothes, Slice of Life, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 14:15:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11128542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebros/pseuds/allthebros
Summary: They’ve never been like this with each other before. He doesn’t know if it’s the sun, being away from Chicago and their lives, or just them finally being able to have this, but it catches inside Jonny’s chest. Little swoops in his stomach that surprise him every time, make it hard to breathe.





	What It Means

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [Blackhawks Summer Fic Fest 2017](http://coffeekristin.tumblr.com/post/161101119308/blackhawks-summer-fic-fest-2017). No prompt chosen this time. Just felt like writing something sappy. :D
> 
> Thanks to the usual suspects on this. It's the shortest so far I've written for the Summer Fest, and frankly, it was a mess. So major thanks to kaneoodle and sorrylatenew. Any mistakes left are entirely my fault. <3

 

 

 

 

“That’s my shirt.”

Pat looks up at him from his spot on the floor with no guilt whatsoever. Jonny wipes the sweat running down into his eyes and blinks, out of breath from his morning run. Out of breath from this, too, them together here. Jonny’s been out of breath a lot about it. Constantly trying to catch up to the moment, to the fact that they have this. 

Pat’s sitting on one of the cushions, back to the sofa, wearing only his underwear and Jonny’s blue tank top, Hawks cap backwards. Early morning sunlight comes in from the window in front of him and his eyes are a violent blue Jonny can barely look at. His nose’s red from sunburn—flaking a little. There are freckles there too. Jonny hadn’t really known there could be so many. Not like this. Not after days in the sun together for the first time, allowed to be so close to him. Sometimes he puts his fingertips over them just because he can, feeling like the biggest fucking sap in the world.

Pat’s legs are outstretched, thighs solid and strong, and he widens them more when he sees Jonny looking, biting the inside of his cheek, smug about it.

“Mine were all dirty,” Pat says.

“What?”

“My shirts. All dirty, had to use yours.”

“Really.”

Jonny knows it means ‘it was the first one I saw when I got up’ but he’s never going to complain about seeing Pat’s shoulders and arms. Or any part of him, really. Now that he can. And it means something, it does, that Pat’s wearing his shirt. That he can. Fuck, he can wear all of Jonny’s clothes if he wants and Jonny will wear his because it means something. 

The screen door clanks loudly behind him, and he ignores it, gets on his hands and knees to crawl between Pat’s legs. He picks Pat’s phone out of his hands and throws it on the couch, pushing forward. Pat has to to bend his knees to make room for him, and Jonny doesn’t stop until he’s close enough to brush Pat’s smile with his.

Pat licks his lips and makes a face. “You’re fucking gross.”

“Good morning to you too, asshole.”

He slips a hand under the hem of Pat’s shirt, flattens it wide over his side and stomach, feels his abs clench.

He thinks about rubbing Pat off like this, on the floor of their beach cottage with a hand pressed over Pat’s dick. Of making him come in his underwear just from that, kissing him through it. 

Maybe after he’s showered.

“I made some breakfast,” Pat says.

Maybe after breakfast.

Jonny groans, lets his head hang heavy and Pat laughs, like he knows exactly what struggle Jonny’s going through. But he doesn’t. Can’t see what Jonny sees when he looks at him.

“Don’t change,” he says, giving Pat’s mouth a quick peck before getting up, legs stiff.

“Won’t.” Pat rubs a hand over his chest, hitching up the shirt to show off a hint of pale stomach and how low his underwear is.

Jonny turns resolutely away, says, “tease,” pointing a finger behind him, and ignoring the kissing noises Pat makes at his back.

They’ve never been like this with each other before. He doesn’t know if it’s the sun, being away from Chicago and their lives, or just them finally being able to have this, but it catches inside Jonny’s chest. Little swoops in his stomach that surprise him every time, make it hard to breathe.

Even before they came here, in the privacy of their homes, it wasn’t this… this. Whatever it is. Too much to deal with maybe: the end of the season and the crash and burn of the playoffs. Perhaps not the best time to finally lay his feelings out in a fit of frustration—half out of panic, half out of being so tired of pretending what he felt wasn’t there—but he’s not sure if it could have happened any other way. 

He rinses off in the outdoor shower by the small pool in their backyard. It’s still early in the morning but Jonny can tell it’s going to be a hot day. In the shade of the trees and bushes surrounding the yard, though, it feels perfect.

The air smells like salt. Like leafy green things and sweetness from the large tropical flowers overhead that Jonny can’t name. He closes his eyes under the spray and leans on the wooden wall, hand on his stomach.

He still can’t believe he gets to have this. 

But he does. He couldn’t make this up. Even before when he he allowed himself to think about it—usually drunk and late into the night—he hadn’t been able to imagine it’d be like this. That it’d feel like this.

He dries himself off quickly and grabs a pair of shorts on his way back.

Pat’s sitting on the counter by the stove with a plate in his hands. He looks up from it when Jonny walks in, says, “You’re too slow,” around a mouthful, and then hands the plate to Jonny.

Jonny eats standing there, right in the middle of the kitchen, watching as Pat picks pieces of egg and bacon from the pan still on the stove. Summer pours in through the window, reshapes everything, and Jonny can only look and look and try to breathe.

“What,” Pat says.

Jonny shakes his head, carefully puts down the plate in the sink and gets close again—can’t seem to be able to be far at all for too long—hitching Pat’s legs over his hips.

Pat searches his face, brows coming together a little as Jonny presses a fingertip on the line between them.

“I guess…” he says. “This is new, and I just—“ He shrugs, drags his fingertip down the bridge of Pat’s nose, picks at the flaking skin there with his nail. “You’re new.” It comes out soft and thin and too honest, and Jonny focuses on Pat’s sunburn.

“I’m just happy,” Pat says, and turns his head to press a kiss to Jonny’s palm. “It’s no great mystery, man.”

There goes that swoop, the breathlessness. Jonny’s so full he doesn’t know how it can all fit inside him. It must show on his face somehow because Pat smiles and rolls his eyes.

“You’re a fucking sap.”

“Am not.”

“You’re literally having a moment right now, I can see it on your stupid face.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jonny says with no heat, feeling a bit raw and exposed. He pushes away, but Pat holds him back with his legs, those strong thighs squeezing around him.

“What were you thinking about earlier?” Pat asks. “Before I mentioned breakfast.”

“Rubbing you off until you came in your underwear.”

“I can’t believe that just came out of your mouth,” he says, looking surprised and dumb. Jonny refrains from pointing out that he’s said similar things before and that he’s had Pat’s dick in his mouth, so this is hardly the filthiest thing to come out of it. Because, unlike some people, he’s not a moment ruiner.

“Now who’s having a moment.”

Or maybe he is.

“Moment would be better with your hand on my dick.”

Jonny smiles, leans in to kiss the hinge of Pat’s jaw while he slides his hand between them. It’s so easy.

Pat’s skin is soft and warm, tanned from days in the sun. He smells like sunscreen and, no matter what he says, he’s new to Jonny in ways that make him want to stay and look and touch until he’s learned all there is to learn about him. He doesn’t care if it takes him forever.

“Keep the shirt on,” he whispers, and presses down between Patrick’s legs, kisses his neck until he gasps. Because it means something.

 

 


End file.
